Stray
by Collegekid2006
Summary: Sometimes, when a life is cut short, all you can do is help those left behind not go stray. Gus deathfic. not slash.
1. Chapter 1

The call came in at 6:32 that morning. I remember because I had just taken off my jacket and poured my first cup of coffee.

I didn't even have a chance to add the cream and sugar.

O'Hara walked up to my desk, already looking grave. I was about to ask why she was there before me, but she was already talking.

"We have to go. Now."

I looked up at her, about to pull rank, but the look on her face stopped me.

"What?" I asked, still not standing up.

She couldn't think she'd won that easily.

"There was a break-in at Psych last night. Patrol is there now. Crime scene is on its way."

"So, what?" I shrugged, not understanding the urgency in her tone. "What'd they do? Take Spencer's whoopie cushion?"

Her jaw clenched tightly. "No," she shook her head, her voice lowering. "They murdered Gus."

* * *

I'm not a damn rookie.

I've seen crime scenes before. I've seen corpses before. But I've never seen anything like that office when we first got there. Someone had shattered the glass front door and forced their way in. The place was torn apart, papers and files everywhere. The TV was smashed and the stereo had been thrown up against the wall, dashing it to a thousand pieces.

In the middle of the floor, still staring blankly up at the ceiling, was Guster. He had two holes in his chest and his lips were parted in silence.

People don't realize how much they can bleed. Until you've seen a body that's been completely bled out all over a floor, you can't even conceive of the amount of blood the human body contains.

If Guster wasn't completely bled out, he was pretty damn close.

As soon as I saw him, I did the one thing I never do.

The one thing I always sneer at the rookies for doing.

I looked away.

O'Hara noticed, of course, mostly because she did the same thing.

"Oh, God," she groaned, turning pale.

I just nodded in agreement, just hoping I didn't look as pale as she did.

I'm Head Detective. I can't be pale.

"He's dead," she murmured to herself, almost like a prayer. "Oh, God, Carlton…he's dead."

"I know." I snapped, straightening up.

Someone had to be the professional, and it sure as hell looked like it wasn't going to be O'Hara. Not this time.

I looked back at the body, my mind trying to see past the irritating sidekick who had pissed me off more times than I count and just see the victim. I tried to focus on the gunshots wounds, tried to figure out how close the gun had been when it was fired…

My mind went blank.

Had he even been shot?

I shook my head, not even bothering to try again right away.

At that moment, I only had one thought on my mind.

I was going to have to tell Spencer.


	2. Chapter 2

The ME snapped me back into reality.

"Two gunshot wounds to the chest," he told me, standing up. "Both point-blank. And it looks like there's blood under his nails, too. He put up a fight."

"Good," I nodded, feeling something resembling sickened pride.

At least he hadn't gone down without a fight.

I glanced over at O'Hara, who had finally managed to make herself look at the body again. "That's not going to make it any easier to tell his parents," she murmured. "Or Shawn."

She sighed and looked up at me, back to being a professional. "I'll tell his parents. You arrested them that one time…it'll be better coming from me."

"Yeah," I agreed, even though I knew it meant I was telling Spencer.

There are some days I hate my job. There are some days I wonder why I didn't listen to my mother and become a musician. I already knew this was going to be one of those days.

Of course, knowing that I was going to catch the son of a bitch…that I was going to see him put behind bars for the rest of his life…

That made up for it.

Most of the time.

The ME draped a sheet over the body. Usually, that's the moment the crime scene becomes mine.

The puzzle that needs to be solved.

The wrong that needs to be righted.

But this time, for the first time in my entire career, that was the moment the crime scene became personal.

* * *

Spencer came to the door in boxers and a white t-shirt, blinking at me as if he couldn't figure out who the hell I was.

"Lassie?" he murmured finally, opening his apartment door and letting me in. "What--?"

I stepped into the apartment without answering. Giving bad news from the hallway never ends well.

He shut the door behind us, still watching my face, trying to figure out why I was there.

Part of me, somewhere so deep inside I could deny under oath the place even exists, I wished his psychic powers would kick-in and I wouldn't have to say anything.

Of course, that didn't happen.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, knowing it was something serious for me to drag him out of bed at the crack of 10 AM.

"There was a break-in at your office last night," I told him.

I have always subscribed to the philosophy that bad news is best delivered like a band-aid being ripped off. It hurts like hell and you'll lose an armful of hair, but just be a man and rip the damn thing off in one swipe.

This time, however, I just couldn't do it one swipe.

"Okay…" he said slowly. "Did they take the TV?"

Despite all appearances to the contrary, Spencer's not a moron.

I could see it in his eyes…he knew what was coming. But he had to delay it as long possible.

He had to.

"No," I shook my head. "The TV's still there. Smashed to bits, but it's still there. We're going to need you to come down and fill out a report so we know if anything was taken."

He nodded. "Okay. I can do that."

He knew I was stalling.

Finally, we both had to quit the damn denial.

"They shot Guster," I told him, ripping the band-aid off. "Twice. In the chest. He…he was dead before we got there, Spencer. There wasn't anything we could do."

He blinked like I'd just punched him in the Adam's Apple. "You're not funny."

"What?"

"You're not funny, Lassie!" he shouted this time, looking up at me with burning hatred in his eyes. "It's not even April Fool's Day! What the hell is this? Payback for gluing you to your chair last week? Because it's not funny!"

I could feel my fists clenching. I wanted to shout back, to tell him he wasn't a damn joke…but I knew I didn't have to.

He knew.

"It's not a joke, Spencer," I told him. "It's not a joke."

He looked down at the floor, every muscle in his body trembling. "I know."


	3. Chapter 3

I didn't have anything else to say.

In my life, I have told three hundred seventeen parents their children are dead.

I've told forty-eight kids their dogs got flattened by a tractor trailer.

I've even told eight cops their partners didn't make it.

So why the hell couldn't I do this?

Spencer was still staring at the floor, still trembling.

And I still didn't have a damn thing to say to him.

Finally, he looked up at me. "You were supposed to be joking, Lassie."

"I know."

He nodded, inhaling slowly. "Did he…?" he started to ask.

"He was dead before he hit the ground," I told him, having absolutely no idea if I was lying or not. "He didn't feel a thing. And he put up a hell of a fight first, Spencer. Whoever did it didn't get away without some scars."

His eyes flashed, and I knew on some level it helped.

Even if I may or may not have been lying about half of it.

He moved towards the door, brushing past me. "I want to see the scene."

I was in front of him again in less than three strides. I pushed his door closed, stepping between him and the outside before he could go off half-cocked and do something stupid. "You don't want to do that, Spencer."

He shoved my hand out of the way with surprising force. "The hell I don't! I want to see it!"

"Spencer--"

"Lassie." His voice was low as he raised his eyes so they were locking with mine. "I want to see it. All of it. You said yourself I need to tell you what's missing."

"That can wait."

"No. It can't. He's my best friend. It can't wait."

I don't know if Spencer noticed his use of the present tense, but I did.

It's never real with the victims' family. They never believe it until they come downtown and identify the body. Even when you tell them their son or daughter is gone…even when they say the words and cry hysterically…they still don't really believe you. They keep clinging to that pointless, futile hope that maybe we're wrong.

That maybe we made a mistake somehow.

That maybe it's some bad dream they'll just wake up from.

Of course, it's never a bad dream, no matter how much they wish it was.

No matter how much I might sometimes wish it was.

Right then, I could tell that Spencer still thought it was a dream, even though I could see every ounce of his logic telling him it wasn't.

He was fighting against it, but he couldn't help clinging to the same pointless, futile hope as everyone else.

I sighed, releasing the door and following him out.

He needed it to be real.

* * *

He stared down at the blood stain in the middle of the floor, his face chalk-white.

It wasn't really a blood stain. Not yet. It was still congealing, so it was more like a damp, sticky puddle.

Not that it matters.

It was still blood.

The ME had finished with the scene, so the body was gone before we got there. But the blood was enough.

He closed his eyes as it washed over him, becoming real in an instant.

He couldn't deny it anymore, couldn't accuse me of joking.

He opened his eyes again, a wry half-grin flashing across his face.

"What?" I asked, wondering briefly if he had finally cracked.

"Nothing," Spencer shook his head slowly, his eyes avoiding the blood. "Gus just hated dead bodies. He probably wanted to go running screaming from the room…"

I still don't know if he had completely cracked at that point or not…

But I noticed he was suddenly using the past tense.


	4. Chapter 4

It's always better to know the truth.

It's always better to live in reality.

Yelling at me…cursing me out…hating my damn guts and swearing I'm wrong…it doesn't do any good.

It's never done anyone any good.

But this time was different. This time, as soon as Spencer switched to past tense, I could see it on his face.

This time, the truth wasn't better.

He kept looking away from the bloodstain, but only for a few seconds at a time. Then, his head would snap right back and his eyes would lock on it again, as if he was trying to memorize it.

"I can't see it, Lassie," he whispered, still trying to focus on the floor.

"You can't see what?"

He looked up at me, shaking his head slowly, his eyes absolutely vacant. "Anything. I can't see anything."

He was looking right at me, so I knew he didn't mean he was blind.

I didn't know what the hell he meant.

He pointed down at one of the files that had been strewn across the office floor. "I don't know if that file was here yesterday or not."

"What?"

He gestured to the office as a whole, releasing a slow, trembling exhale. "I don't know if anything's missing. I can't tell you what's out of place or where it's supposed to go. I can't see it, Lassie. I…just can't see."

His voice rose near the end of the speech, on the verge of cracking. His eyes were almost frantic, his breathing coming in short, shallow gulps.

"Goddamn it, Lassie. I can't see a damn thing!"

* * *

"You brought him to the scene?" O'Hara scolded me, taking a seat in the corner of the Chief's office while we waited for our briefing on the case. "Carlton! What's the matter with you?"

I shrugged, ignoring the patronizing tone in her voice.

I was used to ignoring that tone.

"He wanted to see it, O'Hara. It wasn't real yet."

"Gus was his best friend!" she actually shouted, apparently forgetting for a moment that I'm not a damn kindergartner. "He didn't need to see—"

I glared at her sharply, and she stopped yelling, though she returned the glare with a defiant one of her own.

"He wanted to." I repeated firmly.

She sighed. "Is he okay? I tried calling him after I notified Gus' parents, but he's not answering his phone."

I shrugged again. "He'll live. He doesn't have a choice."

Apparently, that wasn't the answer she was looking for. She opened her mouth to yell at me again, but the Chief came into the office.

She shut the door behind her and crossed to her desk. Normally, Karen is cool and professional with every homicide that crosses her desk, but I could already tell this one had her pissed. She sat down, leveling her most commanding gaze at both of us. "As far as this department is concerned," she began. "A cop was killed last night. Mr. Guster was on the police payroll. I want it to be a top priority."

"You don't have to tell me, Chief." O'Hara spoke up, nodding. "I'm already working on leads."

"Good," Karen sat back in her seat. "What do we have to go on?"

"Not a whole lot." O'Hara sighed, glancing at me. "Did Shawn say if anything was missing?"

The Chief glared at me now. "You brought Mr. Spencer to the scene?"

"He wanted to go!" I argued. "And, no. He didn't know if anything was missing."

"Then, we don't have many leads," O'Hara said. "Gus' parents couldn't think of any enemies he's made and he and Shawn weren't working on any cases this week. Buzz is canvassing the neighborhood for witnesses…hopefully someone saw something…"

I don't know why it occurred to me at that moment.

I don't know why the thought popped into my head, and I sure as hell don't know why I actually said it once it did.

I kicked myself as the words came out of my mouth. "Isn't this why the department has a damn psychic on the payroll?"

They both stared at me like they were either going to shoot me or lecture me.

"You want us to ask Mr. Spencer--?" the Chief started to demand.

"What?" I cut her off, meeting her glare unflinchingly. "Why the hell do we pay him?"

"Carlton!" O'Hara snapped, horrified at the very suggestion. "Why on _earth_ would we ask Shawn to--?"

"Because!" I snapped, standing up. "Maybe he'll see something."


	5. Chapter 5

It took two days for them to finally admit I was right about Spencer.

Two days of nothing but cold leads and dead-ends.

No one in the neighborhood had seen anything that night, and there wasn't a single case file left behind that had anything promising in it.

If we were going to hunt down the son of a bitch who shot Guster, we needed Spencer to get his ass in gear.

"We don't have a choice, Chief," I told Karen. "Even if we don't hire Spencer, we need him to go through the office again. If it was a random burglary, we could be hitting the pawn shops for leads. But we need to know what they stole."

I didn't bother asking her if she found it even the least bit strange that it had been three days since Guster's murder, and Spencer hadn't been hounding the living hell out of us.

He wasn't hanging around the station tormenting me relentlessly, he wasn't calling every two minutes for an update, he hadn't even had a single psychic vision.

For all intents and purposes, he was as dead as Guster.

"I think he's right, Chief," O'Hara spoke up, glancing back and forth between Karen and me. "We need Shawn's help."

Karen sighed, nodding as she leaned back in her chair. "Walk him back through the scene. See if he remembers anything more this time. If he has a psychic vision…" she paused, looking apprehensive. "Just be nice, Detective," she warned finally, her tone threatening as he eyes locked with mine. "Don't push him too hard."

I nodded, as if in agreement.

It was just easier than telling Karen that a push was exactly what Spencer needed.

O'Hara followed me out the door and to my car. "I'm coming with you," she told me, climbing in before I could think of an excuse to leave her behind.

I grunted and got into the driver's seat, knowing it wouldn't do any good to argue with her, anyway.

It never did any good to argue with her.

For the first few minutes of the drive to Spencer's apartment, she was completely silent. She just stared out the window, lost in her thoughts.

Finally, she turned to me. "I've been calling him for three days," she said quietly. "He won't pick up. So, I went by his apartment…he wouldn't even come to the door, Carlton. I don't know what else to do."

I just shrugged, keeping my eyes focused on the road ahead. "We walk him through the scene like the Chief said."

"But what if he won't come?"

"He'll come," I assured her confidently. "Guster was his best friend…he'll come."

* * *

After ten minutes of pounding on Spencer's door, I was almost ready to give up. I was almost ready to say the hell with him and solve the case by myself.

I didn't need him, anyway.

But I didn't stop. I just kept on knocking.

"Spencer!" I growled through the three inches of hardwood that separated us. "We're not going anywhere, so just open the damn door! You're obstructing justice!"

O'Hara's approach was less direct than mine. "Shawn," she spoke gently, resting her hand on the door. "Come on. You can't stay in there forever. Just…let us in. Please."

Finally, the door opened a crack. I seized the opportunity and stuck my foot in before he could change his mind and slam it shut again.

I pushed it open, revealing the dark apartment inside. O'Hara was inside before I was. She stepped over the scattered broken glass that littered the floor, almost running to the couch, where Spencer was sitting.

"Shawn!" She gasped, looking down at him, her eyes already visibly moist even in the dark. "What--?"

She couldn't even finish the question.

I couldn't blame her.

He looked like hell.

His hair was even more disheveled than usual, his chin covered in three days worth of scruff. He wasn't even dressed beyond the same boxers and t-shirt he had been wearing three days ago when I told him the news.

I could see more broken glass covering the kitchen floor, almost like there had been an explosion. I don't think O'Hara saw it. Her eyes hadn't left Spencer's face.

"Shawn," she said again, her voice barely audible as she sat on the couch next to him. "I'm so sorry. I've been trying to call you…"

Her hand rested on his shoulder, but he shook it off, standing up abruptly. "What do you want?" he demanded, ignoring her and looking at me. "You said I was obstructing justice. How the hell can I obstruct justice when I haven't left my apartment in three days?"

"We need you to go over the scene again," I told him, opting not to beat around the bush this time. "We don't have a single lead, Spencer. We need you to try to figure out what the bastards took."

He shook his head slowly, blinking as if trying to clear his mind. "I can't."

O'Hara stood up, coming alongside him. "Shawn, I know it's hard...but we need you to try. For Gus."

His head snapped around, his eyes narrowing furiously at her. "Don't do that, Jules." He growled. "Don't you dare do that to me."

"Do what?" she asked, blinking in surprise at him.

"Don't you think I _want_ to know?" he snarled. "Don't you think I want to track down the son of a bitch myself? I _can't_! I just…can't."

His hands flew up to the sides of his head, clawing at his hair in frustration. "Damn it! I've been sitting here for three days trying to think! But I can't remember a damn thing!"

He collapsed back onto the couch, clutching his head in his hands. "I can't even remember the last thing I said to him," he groaned. "I can't remember what he was wearing the last time I saw him…the last prank I pulled…the last time he threatened to staple my ass to a chair…"

He dropped his hands by his sides wearily, looking at O'Hara. "I can't remember his voice, Jules…it's all just…gone. Like someone deleted the hard drive."

She sat down next to him again, resting her hands on his shoulder.

This time, he didn't shrug her off.

"You'll remember, Shawn. Give it time."

"I can't give it time," he insisted, shaking his head. "I can't…my best friend is dead and I can't even help catch the bastards who killed him."

He groaned again, leaning his head against the back of the couch. "God, Jules…they're going to get away with it…and there's nothing I can do to stop them."


	6. Chapter 6

O'Hara sighed heavily, her fingers tightening around Spencer's shoulder as he dropped his head into his hands again.

I stepped forward, opening my mouth to tell him something…I don't even know what.

Fortunately, I never had to figure it out.

O'Hara looked up at me, shooting me a look I could read from a mile away. She was telling me to get the hell out of Spencer's apartment as clearly as if she was holding a neon sign.

I raised a challenging eyebrow at her, reminding her I out-ranked her, but her commanding glare didn't ease up.

My mouth closed again before I could protest.

I didn't have anything to say to him, anyway.

O'Hara smiled gratefully, raising three fingers at me. "Give me three minutes," she mouthed silently.

I nodded, turning on my heel and marching for the door. "I left my notebook in the car," I announced haughtily, trying to come off like the whole thing was my idea. "I'll be back in _two _minutes." I added pointedly.

I couldn't let her think she had totally won.

Neither of them stopped me from leaving and I didn't look back once, but out of the corner of my eye I could see them still sitting side-by-side on the couch, her hand resting on his shoulder as he stared vacantly down at the floor.

I shut the door behind me and started down the hall. I could hear the mumble of voices, but I couldn't make out a single word.

It was starting to get chilly outside. I pulled my jacket around me, glancing down at my watch impatiently.

One hundred twenty seconds lasts a hell of a long time when you've been kicked out.

I rolled my eyes, strolling to the edge of the sidewalk and back to the front door so I didn't look like a complete ass loitering in front of Spencer's building.

Across the street, a truck caught my eye. I squinted at it, knowing I had seen it somewhere before.

My eyes shot open again when I realized it was Henry Spencer's.

I stopped pacing, my eyes focusing on the truck.

What the hell was he doing there…?

I could see the outline his head through the windshield…but why the hell would he just sit there in his truck across from his son's building?

Why wasn't he getting out?

I crossed the street quickly, coming alongside the driver's side door. I knew he had seen me the second I stepped out of the building, so I didn't bother trying to get the jump on him. He knew I was coming. He already had the window rolled down as I approached. Our eyes locked, both of our years of cop training kicking in as we tried to read each other before speaking.

"Detective," he nodded finally, his voice cool and even-toned.

"Henry," I returned the nod, leaning against his door.

We were both too professional to convey anything useful in our greetings.

"Any luck on the case yet?" he asked, his eyes not leaving mine. He didn't have to specify which case he was talking about.

"No," I shook my head. "No luck at all. That's why we're here." I nodded at the building. "We need your son to walk through the office again and let us know if anything's missing."

Henry sighed, brushing a few empty bags of chips off the seat next to him and onto the floor, where they joined an already impressive collection of soda cans and sandwich baggies.

I immediately recognized that pile of garbage.

Any cop who's ever been on a seventy-two hour stake-out has had a similar one.

I also noted the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble that covered his chin and cheeks.

He was definitely on a stake-out.

"I figured that's what you needed," he said quietly, his eyes settling on the building across the street. "If you can get him to come out…he hasn't even answered his damn phone since it happened. He won't even open his door."

"O'Hara's up there," I murmured. "She knows what she's doing."

Henry looked up at me, his face suddenly settling into a stone mask. "Those bastards already killed my son's best friend," he said, his voice low. "What the hell makes you think they're not coming after Shawn next?"

"Right now, we have no evidence it was anything but a random burglary," I gave my standard BS-the-press reply, already knowing it wouldn't satisfy Henry Spencer.

It wouldn't satisfy any cop.

It wouldn't satisfy any father.

"You just said you don't _have_ any evidence!" he shot back immediately.

"And we won't get any if Shawn doesn't help," I told him as it suddenly dawned on me why he was on a stake-out. "Come on, Henry. You've done this before. You know I don't have a choice."

"The hell you don't!" he snapped. "You don't have to put him through this, Lassiter. You don't have to risk his life to make your case."

"If they're coming after him, they'll do it whether or not he helps us with this investigation," I pointed out firmly, standing up so I was no longer leaning against his truck. "If he helps us, we might be able to catch them before they do. And if he helps us, he'll help put the bastards who killed Guster behind bars. Any friend would want that."

Henry stiffened, but I knew he knew I was right.

He was an ex-cop. How could he not know I was right?

He sighed heavily. "He needs to help," he agreed, his eyes locking with mine again. "But I'm holding you personally responsible if anyone comes after him."

I didn't even blink.

"I know. I'll watch him, Henry."

Henry nodded. "So will I."


	7. Chapter 7

O'Hara emerged from the building, alone, a minute later.

She spotted me immediately and quickly crossed the street to Henry's truck.

"Hi, Mr. Spencer," she greeted him, leaning over into the window, looking slightly confused to see him there.

She glanced up at me questioningly when his impassive face didn't give her any clues, clearly wanting an explanation for what was going on.

I just shrugged like I didn't know what she was after.

I still hadn't forgotten about being kicked out of Spencer's apartment.

"Where's Shawn?" Henry asked her.

She turned back to him, but not before shooting me a dirty look. "He's getting dressed. He'll be down in a minute."

Henry and I exchanged curious glances.

Ten minutes ago, he wouldn't even answer his phone. Now he was on his way down.

What the hell had O'Hara said to him?

The truck started up again. O'Hara and I stepped back from it at Henry leaned out the window. He glanced up at the building, then looked at us, his impassive mask cracking if only for an instant. "Watch him."

O'Hara nodded instantly, answering before I could even open my mouth. "We will, Mr. Spencer."

"I know."

He drove off, leaving us to wait alone on the curb until Spencer finally came down.

He was dressed now in a pair of dirty, wrinkled blue jeans and a blue button-down plaid shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed since sometime in the mid-80's.

But he was dressed.

He didn't say a word as he climbed into the backseat of my car.

No quips, no insults, no smart remarks.

If I hadn't kept glancing in my rearview mirror every few seconds, I wouldn't have even known he was in the car.

Part of me was still waiting for the other shoe to drop; for him to pull out a whoopie cushion or a joy buzzer or say something juvenile and insulting…but he never did.

As far as I could tell, the thought never even crossed his mind.

* * *

The bloodstain was still in the center of the floor, though now it had dried into an ugly brown and black patch.

For the first five minutes we were there, Spencer just stood over it, staring down at it like he couldn't see anything else.

It took me that entire five minutes before I finally realized that he really couldn't see anything else.

"Spencer," I spoke up, clearing my throat. "Is there anything missing?"

He blinked slowly, awakening himself out of his daze, then gazed around the office with dull, hollow eyes. "I don't know, Lassie."

"Does anything look out of place?" I pressed on, knowing it was a damn stupid question. The office was still in tatters, covered with glass shards and blood. "Is anything off?"

He stared down at the blood again. "It's all off, Lassie," he mumbled. "It's all wrong."

"Shawn," O'Hara stepped in, her voice lowering to a sympathetic murmur. "Is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all that might help us find the person who killed Gus?"

Spencer groaned, running his hand over the back of his neck. "I'm trying, Jules."

"I know you are," she encouraged, coming alongside him, looking down at the bloodstain. "I know you are."

He stepped away from her, casting his eye around the room, for the first time looking determined. He took a few steps, then stopped, his eyes focusing on something across the room.

"What is it?" O'Hara asked quietly, straining to keep the eagerness out of her tone. "What do you see?"

"A yellow fruit…" he murmured, his eyes distant and suddenly vacant. "Also a pudding. A delicious pudding."

I tried to follow his line of sight, but all I could see was a trash can on the other side of the room that had someone's leftover lunch in it. It was just the crusts of an old sandwich and a browning banana peel.

"What the hell are you talking about, Spencer?" I demanded, beginning to lose patience with this. "Do you see something or not?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. He just kept staring at that trash can with the discarded lunch, as if it held every memory, every thought, he had ever had.

"A delicious pudding," he murmured again, lifting his eyes and looking right at me.

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked again.

He smiled palely, looking back down at the brown and black patch in the center of the room. "Nothing."

"Do you have something or not?"

He nodded, his jaw setting grimly. "Yeah. I think I do."


	8. Chapter 8

He was still staring at the trash can, his eyes wide and unblinking.

"Well, what the hell do you have?" I demanded, trying not to shout. "God, Spencer! You can be such a--"

O'Hara shot me a warning glare, and I immediately shut up without finishing the thought.

Spencer just grinned, not the least bit ruffled. He raised a single eyebrow, something behind his eyes suddenly lighting up with an almost fierce intensity.

I could see it even before he spoke again.

_Something _was suddenly different than it had been a moment ago.

Something had clicked in his mind.

He lifted a finger to his temple and closed his eyes, and I could feel my own eyes starting to roll out of pure instinct.

Why the hell couldn't he ever just _say_ what he was thinking?

"There's something missing…" he murmured, falling back into the same psychic routine I had seen a thousand times before. "Something shiny…and silvery…and space-agey."

"Space agey?" I snorted disbelievingly. "You lost your space suit?"

O'Hara looked like she was on the verge of punching me in the nose, but Spencer just laughed.  
"No, Lassie," he shook his head, his voice rising as the words poured out of his mouth faster than I could comprehend them. "Not a space suit. Gus' sample case. It's missing. He should have had it with him."

He walked over to the trash can, pointing down at the banana peel inside. His extended index finger was still trembling slightly as he gestured. "He was working on getting caught up on his route that night. That's why he brown bagged his dinner. It was quieter here than at his office. He said he could get more done, especially if I stayed the hell away from him and just let him work."

O'Hara had produced a small spiral notebook out of her pocket and was jotting down every word Spencer said. "That's why he was here?" she asked.

"Yeah," Spencer nodded, his eyes flashing at her. "I remember. He called me earlier that afternoon to tell me to stay away from the office for the rest of the day."

"Was he supposed to meet anyone?" she pressed on hurriedly, not wanting to waste a single moment of lucidity.  
"No," Spencer murmured, for the first time since Guster was killed not blinking at the question. "But he definitely would have had his sample case with him."

O'Hara glanced over at me, flipping though a few other pages of notes. "It wasn't here, Carlton. We went over the place with a fine-tooth comb. We went through his apartment, too, and it wasn't there, either."

"Was it at his office?" I asked.

She shook her head. "I don't think so. We went through his desk for his datebook to see if he was supposed to be meeting anyone, but we didn't inventory his entire office. It wasn't the crime scene."

I turned on my heel, marching for the door. "Well, let's make damn sure it's missing." I ordered sternly. "Because if it is, we have a lead."

I paused in the doorway, glancing back at Spencer, who was still standing by the trash can, beaming with pride. "Nice work, Spencer." I nodded.

"Yeah, Shawn." O'Hara agreed, following me to the door. "We were concentrating on the Psych cases before, since he was killed here. But maybe we were looking for the wrong connection!"

Spencer's grin grew wider as O'Hara sped out of the room ahead of us. I started to turn back to the door, but paused as he raised his fist into the air just past his waist and held it still for a moment, almost like he expected something to happen.

After two seconds of holding it up, his grin vanished, melting away like butter in a hot pan. He slowly turned his head, staring blankly at his hand, which had suddenly loosened from a tight fist into five solitary, seemingly disconnected fingers.

He dropped his arm by his side again as if it was made of lead, his shoulders sagging under some invisible weight only he could feel.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking up at me, his eyes glazed over again. "That's not supposed to happen, Lassie." He mumbled. "There's supposed to be another fist. There's always been another fist."


	9. Chapter 9

I had never been to Guster's office before.

Why would I?

But the first thing that struck me as we walked in was that it was immaculately neat and tidy. Just the way I keep my workspace.

God knows it's not what I expected from a man whose best friend had been…well, Spencer.

Spencer stood in the doorway for a moment, hesitating before coming in. O'Hara noticed this and turned around, meeting his eyes. "Do you want to wait in the car, Shawn?" she asked. "We're just looking for his sample case. We can--"

"No," Spencer shook his head firmly, finally stepping into the office, though at first just with the ball of his foot.

For a minute, he stood exactly one step inside, balancing on the threshold like a tightrope walker. His face was pale again, but his eyes were scanning the room with the same diligent determination I'd noticed at the Psych office.

I walked around to the other side of Guster's desk, but I knew it was pointless. I could see the entire office from the doorway, and the sample case wasn't there.

We officially had our first lead.

It's a rush, getting a lead on a case. There's nothing else like it. When your questions start getting answers, when everything is starting to make sense…when order is restored to the universe…

But this time, I didn't feel the adrenaline pumping through my bloodstream, urging me on even through the crippling exhaustion and endless set-backs that accompanied every case.

This time, the lead just made me feel tired all over.

O'Hara glanced over at me, concern etched across her forehead. "It's not here, Carlton."

"I know," I nodded.

From his position one step inside the office, Spencer suddenly made a sound that sounded like some kind of ungodly mixture of surprise, shock and a cat being skinned alive. O'Hara whirled around. "Shawn--!" she exclaimed, taking a step towards him.  
He waved her away, his eyes focused on something on the other side of the room. I followed his line of site.

On top of the filing cabinet on the other side of the room, there was a single white, Styrofoam cup. There was nothing special about it as far as I could tell, but Spencer's eyes were definitely glued to it, like it held the answer to every problem he'd every had.

"What is it?" O'Hara pressed on. "Are you getting something?"

"Did you move anything when you were in here looking for his datebook?" he asked hoarsely.

"What?" O'Hara's brow wrinkled as she tried to remember. "No. Of course not. We just opened his desk drawers. It was on top in the center one. Why?"

Spencer took another step inside, finally setting his entire foot onto the carpet. It was a slow, measured maneuver, as if the floor was made of hot coals. "Because someone moved that cup."

"What cup?" O'Hara asked, turning towards the filing cabinet.

"That one," Spencer replied, pointing at it.

"You mean the plain, white cup you can get at any coffee shop?" I snorted, rolling my eyes. "Come on, Spencer. How can you possibly know--?"  
He pushed past me, ignoring my every word.

Just like always.

He snatched the cup off the cabinet, looking down at it as he cradled it in one hand. I came up alongside him, wondering what on earth he could possibly see in a stupid cup.

As I approached, I saw it.

The cup had writing on the side. It was faint, carved into the soft Styrofoam with a pencil.

It read CO-EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH---GUS "SILLY PANTS" JACKSON.

"What is it?" O'Hara asked, joining us.

Spencer looked up at her. "Gus' trophy," he said quietly. "I gave it to him a few months ago. He never got them here since we started Psych…something about calling in sick too much. I don't know. I wasn't really listening. I gave it to him to cheer him up."

"Why does it say Co-employee of the month?" I asked.

Spencer laughed. "He tied for first. I have the same trophy on my desk at Psych."

He turned around, pointing to the center of Guster's desk. "And he kept his right there. He never moved it. So, if you didn't touch it…"

O'Hara and I exchanged glances.

He didn't have to finish that thought.

"It means someone else has been in here."


	10. Chapter 10

Spencer dropped the cup onto the floor, staring down at it with wide, glassy eyes.

"Oh, God," he groaned, though I don't think he was actually talking to us.

I don't think he even knew we were there.

"Someone killed him. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't a burglary. It was…a hit."

"Shawn," O'Hara murmured gently, her hand squeezing his elbow lightly. "We don't know that. There's no evidence—"

He shook her hand off angrily, his eyes blazing. "Damn it, Jules! Someone was in here! And they stole his sample case! That's not a coincidence! You can't tell me--!"

He didn't even finish his thought. He spun on his heel and was out the door before O'Hara or I could react; a pale streak of fury flashing across the floor.

She looked over at me as he dashed out of the room, expecting me to do something.

What the hell did she want me to do?

I just shrugged, following him out of the office. She was less than a step behind.

We finally caught up with him down the hall, by the secretary's desk. He was leaning over it, shouting at the befuddled woman.

"Who's been in there?" he was shouting as we finally ran up to them.

The terrified secretary looked up at us, a trembling finger straightening the tight bun clasped at the back of her head. "I—I don't know what he's talking about!" she stammered.

I grabbed Spencer by the shoulder and pushed him back away from the desk. "Back off," I snapped.

His eyes flashed with a murderous hatred I'd never seen in him before as he ignored my every word and started at the desk again. I stepped between him and the secretary, stopping him with one push to the chest that had just enough force behind it to convince him I was serious.

"I mean it, Spencer," I growled. "Back off."

He didn't try again.

For a moment, he stood completely still, glaring at me as his breathing came in long, hesitant inhales.

My fists were already clenched, ready to level him if he took a swing at me.

I swore he was going to take a swing at me…but he never did.

"Someone killed him, Lassie," he said quietly, the hatred that had been burning in his eyes just a moment ago gone now, replaced by something else entirely.

"I know," I nodded, thrusting my thumb at the secretary behind me. "But she didn't do it. So back the hell off or I'll throw you off this case."

Spencer glanced at O'Hara, apparently thinking she would be on his side.

But she wasn't.

Not this time.

She shook her head at him, not meeting his eyes. "He's right," she whispered.

From the look on Spencer's face, you'd think she had just stabbed him in the back.

He stepped back from her. "Someone killed him, Jules. On purpose."

"I know."

"I found a lead…" he pressed on, his voice dropping. "I found a lead."

"I know," she nodded sympathetically.

"But no one's been in Mr. Guster's office since…it happened," the secretary spoke up, apparently finally caught up.

Our heads all snapped back to her.

"It's been locked since the police came that first day," she told us. "You know that. I had to let you in when you got here. Remember?"

"Yes," O'Hara nodded gently, smiling at her. "But we have some evidence that someone has been in there recently."

The secretary looked confused. "Only the police…" she murmured. "No one else would--"

She stopped, suddenly looking apprehensive. Her eyes shifted from O'Hara to her desk.

I sighed, instantly knowing what that subtle change in body language meant. I've seen it a thousand times, every time a suspect remembers something that they're not too eager to share. Usually, three or four hours under the lights changes their tune, and they come out with it. But I didn't have time for that this time.

Not on this case.

O'Hara had noticed it, too. She stepped towards the woman, drawing her gaze back up from the desk. "What?"

The secretary's eyes darted nervously between Spencer, O'Hara and me. "I--" she stammered, still not wanting to come out with it. "I—forgot. Someone was in there. Yesterday. But it was only for a minute," she added quickly, justifying herself.

Guilty people always feel the need to justify themselves.

"Who was it?" Spencer demanded before O'Hara could ask the question.

She hesitated. "Dr. Hennigan," she said finally. "He was a doctor on Mr. Guster's route. He stopped by yesterday to pick up something he had left in Mr. Guster's office…he hadn't heard about the murder yet. I unlocked the door and let him in, but the phone was ringing. I had to answer it…I left him alone for just a minute."

She looked up at me nervously. "Should I not have done that? It wasn't a crime scene, was it?"

I just grunted, watching Spencer out of the corner of my eye. "Well, it sure as hell is now."


	11. Chapter 11

The secretary locked-down Guster's office again and swore she wouldn't open it until the Crime Scene Unit got there.

The three of us knew it was a long shot, dusting for prints, but sometimes in an investigation a long-shot is all you can hope for.

Sometimes, it's all that gets you through the day.

Spencer was out the front door of the office building before O'Hara and I were, eager to start tracking down our one lead.

O'Hara, however, wasn't so eager. She pulled me aside as Spencer dashed out the front door.

"We can't take him with us this time, Carlton," she told me, meeting my eyes earnestly. "He's…he's not okay."

I knew what she meant by this, of course. But for some reason I didn't fully understand, I pretended I didn't have a clue.

Playing dumb isn't something I generally tolerate, much less actually participate in…but somehow, in this case, it just seemed like the right thing to do.

"He'll be fine," I shrugged, trying to push past her. She stepped between me and the door, stopping me dead in my tracks with just one sharp glare.

In my entire life, I've only had one other partner who could stop me like that…but that was for completely different reasons.

"What?" I grunted, stubbornly clinging to my feigned ignorance.

"You know what!" she snapped. "Walking him through Psych again was one thing…but this is too much. He's on the verge of a breakdown! We can't take him to investigate a potential suspect!"

"Why the hell not?" I demanded, quickly losing patience with this game. "He's not armed."

O'Hara was not amused.

At all.

"I'm serious!" she growled.

"I know."

"It's not fair to him," she pressed on. "He hasn't even had a chance to process everything. He pointed us in the right direction…isn't that enough? We can't expect him to actually find the person who murdered his best friend, especially if he's right about all of this and it wasn't a random burglary. If it was a hit of some kind…God, Carlton. You saw his face when he found the cup. How do you think he's going to react when we find something concrete?"

She paused for a long moment, sucking her breath in with a long, tired sigh. "I can't watch him like this. He's not even here. You can see it in his eyes…he can't do this. How much help can he possibly be when we spend the entire investigation keeping him from going off the edge?"

"We don't have a choice, O'Hara," I told her, stepping around her for real this time.

"Yes, we do."

I stopped, turning around again slowly. "No. We don't. We missed the sample case. We were on the wrong track from the start. Whatever the hell it is Spencer keeps saying he can't see…he's seeing it, O'Hara. Better than we are, at least."

I looked around to make sure no one heard me say it. I was already prepared to deny under torture I'd ever said it.

"But he's too close."

"We can't help that," I shrugged. "He'll be too close whether or not he's involved."

She shook her head sadly.

Because she'll never actually admit it, I've learned to accept this gesture as acknowledgement that she knows I'm right.

"It's just not fair," she sighed. "It's not fair."

"I know," I nodded.

She wasn't wrong about a single fact.

She was completely right about everything she was saying.

Part of me even agreed with her.

Except, she was also dead wrong.

"He's the one waiting for us in the squad car," I reminded her. "He could have gone home after he walked through the crime scene. But he didn't. He wants in, O'Hara, and I'm sure as hell not going to kick him off."


	12. Chapter 12

Hennigan's practice was a small, two-room setup on the South side of town.

Even before we pulled into the parking lot, I knew this lead was going to pan out somehow.

Sometimes, you just know.

O'Hara was watching Spencer in the rearview mirror. Her eyes didn't move from him the entire drive, as if she was worried letting him out of her sight for a moment would push him over the edge.

He didn't look at her once. He didn't even seem to know we were there. He just stared blankly out his window, though I could tell his mind was spinning at a thousand miles an hour.

I just hoped it was spinning in the right direction.

As I parked and opened my door, O'Hara turned around to him. "You don't have to--" she started she say, but he was already climbing out, his shoulders stooped slightly as he jammed his hands into his pockets.

"Yeah, Jules. I do."

"I know," she sighed, following us. "I know. I just wanted to say you didn't."

He smiled palely at her, taking one hand out of his pocket and brushing off against his jeans. "Thanks," he mumbled.

He held the door open for her as she passed by, so he was the last one of us to walk into the small waiting room. Behind the desk, a short, stocky woman looked up from her dime store novel just long enough to glare at me.

I returned the glare without so much as flinching, not about to take attitude from someone making minimum wage sitting behind a desk all day. Especially if that desk was all that stood between me and a murderer.

"Police," I growled, flashing my badge. "We're investigating a homicide. Where's Dr. Hennigan?"

Her glare immediately faded and her entire demeanor shifted to one of nervous contrition.

Badges have that effect sometimes.

Sometimes, they have the opposite effect.

I don't really care how they react when they see it. Either way, I'm suddenly in control of the conversation.

"He's with a patient right now," the woman stammered. "What do you mean homicide?"

"I mean someone was murdered!" I spat. "Which means my questions are more important than giving Granny her flu shot."

O'Hara elbowed me sharply as she stepped forward. "We just have a few questions for Dr. Hennigan about a murder that happened the other night. Burton Guster. He was a pharmaceutical rep, and Dr. Hennigan was on his route."

The woman nodded fiercely. "Oh, yes! I read about that in the paper! So sad," she shook her head sorrowfully. "He seemed like a nice boy. But what does it have to do with Dr. Hennigan?"

"We just have a few questions," O'Hara told her with a disarming smile. "Tying up loose-ends for our report. If you could tell him we're here…"

"Of course!" the woman exclaimed, immediately standing up. "I know he'll want to help in anyway he can."

I rolled my eyes.

I hate it when O'Hara does that.

I turned around, for the first time noticing Spencer was hanging back, not forcing his way into the spotlight like he usually did. He wasn't even watching the conversation. His head was down, his eyes looking at the carpet.

The woman returned a moment later, before I could say anything.

Not that I knew what the hell to say.

"Dr. Hennigan will see you," she announced, holding the door open as O'Hara and I passed into the office. Spencer trailed behind, suddenly not looking so certain he wanted to be there. But he didn't turn and run, like I knew he wanted to. He just slowly, methodically, kept putting one foot in front of the other until we were inside.

Hennigan was sitting on a small, round stool as we walked in. He looked up, running a hand nervously though his graying hair. His fingers were already trembling.

"Jenny said you had some questions about the pharmaceutical rep who was killed the other night," he said before we could get a word out.

"Yeah," I nodded.

"His name was Gus," Spencer added from behind me, his voice so quiet Hennigan didn't even hear him.

Hennigan nodded and stood up. "I read about it yesterday in the papers. I've been out of the country at a medical conference for most of this month, so I was slightly behind in the news. He was a good kid. But I don't know what I can tell you about his death. The paper said it was an apparent robbery."

"His name was Gus!" Spencer shouted his time, his ears blazing red as he stepped forward.

All three of us whipped our heads around in surprise, but he didn't care. His eyes narrowed at the doctor, his lip curling up into an angry sneer. "Not kid! Not pharmaceutical rep! _Gus!_ His damn name was Gus!"

"Spencer!" I growled, shooting him a warning glare. "Back off."

Dr, Hennigan waved me off. "It's okay. I've seen family members dealing with death before."

His tired, bloodshot eyes met with Spencer's. "I'm sorry about your loss. Gus was a fine sales rep. He really was. But he hasn't been my rep for over a month now. My practice was just too small for his route, so he dropped me. I really don't know what I can tell you other than that."

"When did that happen?" O'Hara asked, jotting notes down in her pad.

"Like I said, about a month ago."

"Then why were you in his office yesterday?" Spencer demanded, jumping to the heart of the matter before I could stop him.

Psychics have no sense of the proper flow of an interrogation.

Dr. Hennigan blinked in surprise, obviously thrown by the question. "Who told you I was--?"

"Guster's secretary," I spoke up, stepping between the doctor and the psychic before anymore of our cards could be laid on the table. "She said she opened the door for you and left you alone for a few minutes while she answered the phone."

Dr. Hennigan sat back down slowly, the tremor in his hand growing more pronounced. "Yeah," he nodded finally, realizing he was caught. "I was there."

"Why?" O'Hara asked.

He looked up, his eyes shifting back and forth between the three of us. "When Gus dropped me a month ago, we had a meeting in his office to go over files. I'd left something behind, and yesterday was the first chance I had to pick it up. Like I said, I was out of the country."

"What did you leave at Guster's office?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Nothing important. Just a personal notebook."

"You're a liar!" Spencer shouted suddenly, taking an angry step towards him.

"Spencer!" I snapped, grabbing him by the collar before he could get too far. "Knock it off!"

But this time, Spencer wasn't going to knock it off. His eyes were glazed and distant as he shook my hand off and lunged at Hennigan again.

"Shawn!" O'Hara gasped. "Stop it!"

Spencer stopped as if her voice was a leash he'd just reached the end of. He dropped his arms by his side, exhaling slowly as he glared at Hennigan, who had almost fallen off his stool in surprise.

"You're a damn liar," he growled.

"I'm not lying!" Dr. Hennigan insisted, looking up at me for help. "Who the hell is this, anyway? Is he a cop?"

"No," I shook my head. "But he's damn tenacious. And he's on this case, so you'd better answer his question."

"He didn't ask a question!" Hennigan protested. "He just called me a liar!"

"Are you?" I demanded.

"No!"

"Good," I nodded. "Then you won't mind showing me the notebook."

Spencer's eyes grew wide, as if I'd just hit on something he hadn't thought of.

I'd never seen that look on his face before.

"The notebook?" Hennigan repeated.

"Yeah," I shrugged casually. "The one you left in his office. You got it back, right?"

He hesitated, glancing up at Spencer, then back at me. "No," he shook his head slowly. "I didn't find it."

"Really?" I smirked, keeping one eye on Spencer as I loomed over Hennigan on his stool. "Then, I'm going to have agree with Spencer, here. You're a damn liar."


	13. Chapter 13

For a moment, Hennigan didn't move. He stared up at me in shock, trying to formulate an answer.

Of course, there wasn't an answer.

That was the point.

Spencer took a step back, the whites of his eyes looking like ping pong balls. His hands were shaking as bad as Hennigan's now as he clenched them into tight fists, and I had a sneaking suspicion I'd be cuffing one of them within the next two minutes.

Finally, Hennigan stood up, still not saying anything. He crossed the room to his desk and opened a drawer.

My gun was in my hand in an instant, just out of pure instinct.

It wouldn't have been the first time someone tried to pull a gun me.

"Step back from the desk!" I growled, the barrel aimed at his head.

O'Hara's gun was out, too, and her eyes were locked on him intently.

Spencer barely reacted at all. He just blinked, almost as if he was watching a scene in a movie.

Hennigan turned around slowly, holding up the plain, white envelope he had drawn out of the desk. "These are just my plane tickets," he told me, raising his hands over his head so I could see he wasn't hiding anything. "If you're going to accuse me of something, at least let me give you my damn alibi."

I shoved my gun back into my holster and reached out for the tickets, but not because I needed to see them. I already knew they'd prove he had been out of the country when Guster was murdered. Only an idiot would hand me an alibi that didn't.

I was more interested in his arms.

As he'd lifted them over his head, his long sleeves had ridden up just enough for me to see there were no scratches or marks on them.

There had been blood under Guster's nails at the scene.

The M.E. had said whoever did it hadn't gotten away without some marks on them, most likely their arms, neck or face, since those are the easiest places to latch onto in a struggle.

As I reached for the envelope, I glanced at his forearms just to make sure I hadn't missed something.

They were clean, just like his face and neck.

I looked the tickets over, anyway. Sure enough, his flight out of the country had been three weeks ago, and his return flight hadn't arrived until the day after Guster's murder.

He was in the clear…at least, for now.

He watched my face as I examined the tickets, trying to read my thoughts. Of course, I wasn't stupid enough to actually let my face betray anything.

I handed them back to him, my expression remaining neutral and completely stoic.

"Even if you don't believe me about the notebook," he continued, putting them back in his desk. "You can't deny those plane tickets. I didn't have anything to do with the murder. I know that's what you're getting at."

He paused, looking up at me, apparently waiting for me to assure him I wasn't thinking that.

I didn't.

"I didn't have a reason to kill Gus," he pressed on. "And two hundred people at the conference can vouch that I was nowhere near Santa Barbara when it happened. I just went to his office to get my notebook when I came back to town, but I didn't find it. I have no idea what happened to it, and I don't really care. There wasn't anything important in it, which is why I didn't make a bigger deal out of it. And that's the truth."

He slammed the desk drawer shut with finality, as if he'd just made some irrefutable point.

I still didn't believe him.

I still thought he was a damn liar, but I couldn't prove it yet and I didn't know what, exactly, he was lying about. I just knew I wasn't going to get anything else out of him right then.

Once I had probable cause to drag him downtown…once he was on my turf…it was going to be a whole different story. But until then, there was nothing else I could do; at least not without revealing more about our case than I wanted to.

The first rule of any investigation is to keep your mouth shut. Nothing sinks a case faster than a cop with a big mouth.

I glanced at O'Hara, who instantly understood we were done. She nodded at me, gently tugging Spencer's arm.

"Come on, Shawn," she said quietly, urging him towards the door. "We have to go."

Spencer just blinked, as if trying to figure out where he was.

His eyes locked with Hennigan's again. "You're a damn liar!" he growled one last time.

Hennigan didn't even flinch as O'Hara finally managed to push Spencer out the door.

"Stick around town," I told the doctor, following close behind Spencer and O'Hara. "I'll have more questions for you later."

Hennigan nodded. "I will, Detective."

Outside the office, O'Hara and Spencer were waiting for me.

I looked back, still having the distinct feeling in my gut that this lead wasn't as dead as it looked.

My gut is never wrong.

"O'Hara," I said quietly. "Check out his alibi. Talk to the airlines, anyone at the conference you can track down…I want to know where he was every damn minute he was out of town."

"I'm on it," she nodded, hesitating before leaving. She looked at Spencer, who was still engulfed in some sort of daze, staring down at the ground.

"Go." I told her, flicking my head at Spencer. "We're going back to Guster's office to see what the crime scene boys found."

For a moment, she didn't move.

She didn't jump into action like she usually did when I barked an order at her.

She just…stood there, staring at Spencer, her lips parted as if she was about to say something.

"O'Hara!" I growled finally. "We have a case to solve."

"Right," she nodded, sighing as she finally walked away, back inside the office to get more information about the conference.

I turned to Spencer, who had snapped momentarily out of his stupor. "He's a liar, Lassie," he said hoarsely. "I know he is…I just can't…I can't…"

His voice trailed off, dying halfway through each attempt to complete the thought.

"I know," I nodded. "We can't prove it yet. But he wasn't there, Spencer. He didn't do it."

He looked surprised at the revelation.

"How do you--?" he started to ask, his eyes suddenly focused, though his brow was knit confusion.

Under any other circumstances, I would have sneered.

Under any other circumstances, it would have seemed liked Spencer's just desserts. He never asked me how I knew anything, and he sure as hell never looked confused by anything I said.

But this time, I didn't feel like sneering.

"Because he wasn't scratched up," I told him. "He wasn't in a fight recently. Whoever shot Guster got the hell clawed out of them. We'll know them when we see them."

Spencer reeled back as if I'd just punched him in the nose, all the color draining from his face. "Oh, God, Lassie!" he groaned, looking like he was about to be sick all over the sidewalk.

I stepped back, just in case.

"What?"

"I--I didn't notice."  
Now it was my turn to look confused. "You didn't notice what?"

He sighed, his shoulders slumping again. "Any of it. I wasn't even looking for signs of a struggle…I just knew he was lying. All I could see was the lie. I didn't care about anything else."

I straightened up, taking a step towards him.

"Then get your head out of your ass, Spencer." I growled, pushing past him. "Psychic or not, that's just damn shoddy investigating. I wouldn't expect that from a rookie."

I paused, turning back around when I realized he still hadn't moved.

"It's no use, Lassie," he moaned, his feet apparently welded to the sidewalk. "I can't do it. I mean, what good am I if I can't even see what you see?"

I grunted, shrugging as I pressed on towards the car. "No damn good at all."


	14. Chapter 14

We never made it back to Guster's office. The moment we got into the car, my phone rang.

It was the Chief.

"We have a break, Carlton," she said. "Get back to the station."

"Right, Chief," I nodded, glancing at Spencer out of the corner of my eye as I hung up and turned the car in the other direction.

I knew I didn't have to tell him where we were going.

The Chief was waiting for us in her office when we got back.

Actually, she was waiting for me.

She shot me a questioning, accusatory glare when Spencer slunk in behind me.

"Mr. Spencer!" she said, trying not to sound surprised to see him. "I thought my detectives were going to walk you through the crime scene and then take you home. What are--?"

He just shrugged, cutting her question off as he slumped into a chair. "I'm not going anywhere, Chief. Not until…"

He let the sentence hang unfinished in the air, waving his hand lazily after it, as if the gesture was as good as actually completing the thought.

She nodded, still glaring at me. "I see."

"He found a lead," I spoke up, not about to take her silent accusations without defending myself. "He knew someone had been snooping around Guster's office."

"Who?" Karen asked, leaning back in her chair, suddenly looking more intrigued than pissed.

"Some doctor on his route," I explained. "Hennigan. That's why I called in the crime scene boys."

"Hennigan's a damn liar!" Spencer added bitterly, his eyes blazing again.

Karen looked over at him, blinking in surprise at his outburst, then back at me.

"What is he talking about?"

"O'Hara's on it," I told her. "Hennigan was out of the country when Guster was murdered, and his story is he was in his office yesterday looking for a notebook he'd left the last time he was there. He claims he never found it. He's a damn liar, but we can't prove it yet."

"A notebook?" Karen repeated, her brow furrowing.

"Yeah," I nodded. "He said there wasn't anything important in it."

She spun around in her chair to the table behind her, turning back to us a moment later, suddenly holding a blue spiral-bound notebook.

"I don't think he's a damn liar, Carlton," she said quietly, handing it to me. "The crime scene boys found this while they were going over Mr. Guster's office. That's why I called you back here. It was taped to the bottom of his desk."

I opened it up and started flipping through the pages. They were just filled with letters and numbers scrawled in pencil, most of which were in the same format:

GB- 009077003

KL- 721221114

LM- 111100657

Next to some of them, someone had written notes in red pen.

N MATCH

NUMBER DESNT EXIST

WRNG NAME

DECEASED

PATIENT STPPED TREATMENT A YEAR AG

"What the hell?" I murmured, squinting at the almost incomprehensible scribbles. "What does it mean?"

Spencer was reading over my shoulder, his eyes narrowing at the pages as I flipped through them. "I don't know what the pencil means…" he said quietly. "But the red pen is Gus."

"What?" I asked, looking up at him. "How can you possibly know--?"

"Look," he pointed at some of the red penned words. "He left out all the O's. Gus always left the O's off of words when he didn't want people to know what he was saying…he had an aversion the them, and he thought dropping them was some kind of secret, uncrackable code or something."

"Why on earth would he have an aversion to the letter O?" The Chief asked.

Spencer shrugged, grinning slightly. "He knew there wasn't an O."

We both stared at him, absolutely befuddled.

"What the hell does that mean?" I demanded.

"It means," Karen spoke up, not waiting for an explanation from Spencer. "That I think we found Dr. Hennigan's mysterious notebook. Maybe there was a reason Mr. Guster had it taped under his desk, a reason he made these notes in it. Maybe these letters and numbers mean something that Dr. Hennigan didn't want getting out…"

I stood up. "O'Hara should be over there now, nailing down his alibi. I'll have her bring him in for questioning. We have probable cause now."

Spencer stood up to follow, but the Chief stopped him before he could take one step. "Go home, Mr. Spencer," she ordered sternly, though her voice was quiet and almost gentle.

He turned back to her, shaking his head. "I can't, Chief. I have to--"

"You have to do what I tell you," she interjected, leveling a withering glare at him, her eyes taking in his still pale face and trembling hands. "This is my station, Mr. Spencer. You've done enough on this case. I just needed you to walk through the crime scene, tell us what was missing. You've done that. Now you need to go home. Get some rest."

"I don't need rest!" he snapped, coming as close as I've ever seen him come to yelling at her. "I don't need any damn rest! I have to figure this out! I _have_ to!"

She stood up, resting her hands on the desk as she leaned across, meeting Spencer's eyes firmly.

She wasn't going to back down.

We both knew that.

"You're off this case, Mr. Spencer," she told him, not a hint of waiver in her tone. "Go home. Now. Or I can have Officer McNab escort you home."

His eyes narrowed angrily at her, but he didn't argue.

He just spun on his heel and marched out of the room, ramming my shoulder as he did.

As he slammed the door behind him, the Chief turned her glare to me. "What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded. "You took him with you to interview a potential suspect? Do you have any idea what an attorney could do with that kind of impropriety in court?"

"He's a police consultant!" I snapped back. "He was consulting!"

"Detective! He's barely hanging on! He can't handle a case right now! His best friend was just murdered!"

"I know," I growled, turning back to the door to go call O'Hara. "And kicking him off didn't change that. And it sure as hell doesn't mean he's just going to give up and go home now. It's Spencer, Chief. He never just gets gives up."

* * *

Less than a half-hour later, O'Hara walked back into the station with Dr. Hennigan. I saw them come in from my desk, where I was still looking over the notebook, trying to make heads or tails out of the scribblings.

From Guster's notes, I knew the numbers had something to do with Hennigan's patients, but I wouldn't know what unless he told me.

I watched as she led him to the interrogation room. He was quiet and he looked slightly nervous, but his steps were even and confident.

He knew he wasn't going down for murder.

Just as I stood up to follow them, Spencer stepped out from the corridor that led down to the interrogation room.

"Shawn!" O'Hara exclaimed when she saw him, but he wasn't looking at her.

He was looking at Hennigan.

There wasn't any color left in his face, and his trembling fists were clenched tightly. I could see it coming a split-second before it happened.

"Damnit!" I shouted, trying to make it across the precinct in time.

But I was too late.

Spencer's fist had already connected with Hennigan's nose, leveling him to the floor in a bloody heap.


	15. Chapter 15

"I told you he couldn't handle a case," the Chief growled, glaring at me as we watched Spencer through the two-way glass of the interrogation room.

Like it was somehow my fault he flipped out and broke Hennigan's nose.

Spencer was sitting alone at the table, cuffed to his chair as he stared blankly down at the floor.

He hadn't said a word since I'd tackled him and dragged him in there. I couldn't even be sure he knew where he was anymore.

"The DA wants to press charges," she continued, looking concerned as she crossed her arms over her chest and turned her eyes back to Spencer. "And Hennigan does, too. Detective O'Hara is still interviewing him in the other room."

"Any chance he cracked yet and confessed to Guster's murder?" I asked dryly.

Karen wasn't amused by the quip. "No."

"Then Spencer's screwed."

"Yeah," she nodded in agreement. "He is."

She sighed, watching his fingers run over the metal of the handcuffs.  
She opened her mouth, as if she was about to say something, but she never got a chance. Henry Spencer came up behind us that moment.

"Karen, what the hell is going on?" he demanded, gazing through the glass at his son. He pushed past us, heading straight for the interrogation room door. "Why the hell is he cuffed?"

Karen stepped between him and the door, gently placing her hand on his chest as she pushed him back. "He punched out a suspect. They want to press charges…I don't know if I can help him this time."

Henry stepped back, groaning as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes went back to the interrogation room. "It was Gus, Karen."

"I know. But that's not a legal defense."

His eyes fixed on me next, burning with the same hatred I had seen in Spencer's. "I told you I was holding you responsible."

"I didn't tell him to punch out a suspect!" I shot back.

"I didn't call you so you could point fingers," Karen snapped, stepping between us. "I called you because he's going to need a lawyer, Henry. But I don't think that's what he needs right now."  
"I know," Henry nodded, sighing. "He needs Gus."

He stepped up to the door again. This time, the Chief let him pass.

The door shut so quietly behind him that Spencer didn't even look up. He didn't see his father until Henry had slid into the chair across from him.

"Hey, Kid," Henry murmured, his eyes locked on the silver cuffs.

Spencer blinked in surprise, as if awakening from a dream, only to find out it was reality.

He tried to lift one hand, but couldn't get it past his waist.

"Hey, Dad."

"What the hell were you thinking?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, watching the exchange with rapt attention.

I was wondering the same thing.

Spencer just shrugged limply, not meeting Henry's eyes. "He killed Gus, Dad. He killed him."

"Then, why haven't the police arrested him yet?" Henry demanded, not even blinking. He just shot the question right back, like a cop in the middle of an interrogation.

It was the same technique I used.

"He has an alibi…"

"What kind of alibi? Come on, Kid! You can do better than that. They're going to throw your ass in jail."

He leaned across the table intently, drawing his son's gaze back to him. "You can do better than that, Shawn."

Spencer shook his head slowly, the motion growing more rapid and frantic with each pass. "I can't, Dad. I can't…but he did it…he's lying."

Henry nodded slightly, leaning back in his chair. "Now we're getting somewhere. What did he lie about? His alibi?"

"No. That's rock-solid. He wasn't in the country."

"Then, he didn't do it," Henry shrugged simply. "So, move on."

Spencer's head snapped back up. He strained against the cuffs, the chair squeaking across the floor a few inches. "I'm not going to move on! He's a damn liar!"

"Maybe he is, Shawn, but he's also innocent. He wasn't in the country. So move on."

"But--"

"Shawn!" Henry growled, cutting off Spencer's protest before it could even form. "Move on. What else do you have to go on?"

"I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

"No, I can't!" Spencer exploded suddenly, though you'd never be able to tell from Henry's cool demeanor. "I can't do it, Dad! God! I've been trying for four damn days!"

Henry nodded slowly, standing up. "Close your eyes, Shawn," he ordered.

"What the hell does that mean?" I murmured at the Chief, who just shrugged back.

Apparently, Spencer understood. He groaned, dropping his head onto his chest. "I don't want to!"

"I didn't ask if you wanted to. Do it."

"I can't."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because I'll see him!"

He lifted his head again, looking as if it weighed a thousand pounds. His eyes locked with his father's again, brimming with pain and anger. "I'll see him, Dad….the blood…the bullet holes…It's all I can see when I close my eyes. I just…can't see him again. I don't want to see him again."

"You have to, Shawn." Henry told him quietly, standing over him now. "You don't have a choice. You have to see him again."

Spencer groaned, finally clutching his eyes shut tightly.

"What the hell are they doing?" I asked Karen, glancing over at her curiously.

"I don't know," she murmured. "But I'm not going to stop it."

"What do you see?" Henry asked, taking a seat again. "Everything. You have to see everything, Shawn."

"I just see the blood…" he groaned, struggling to keep his eyes closed. "Dad! I don't want to see it anymore!"

"I know, Shawn. I know. But you have to. What else do you see?"

"The bullet holes…two…in his chest…close-range…"

"Good," Henry nodded. "Keep going."

Spencer was pressing so hard against the back of his chair now that I was sure it was going to topple over backwards.

"The glass on the door…it's shattered…they broke the TV…"

"They did what?" Henry asked.

Spencer's eyes shot open again. "They smashed the TV. Threw it up against the wall."

"Why the hell would they do that?" Henry asked.

Spencer blinked slowly. "I don't know…to make us think it was a burglary?"

Henry nodded slowly in agreement. "And if they wanted us to think it was a burglary, what does that mean?"

"That is wasn't."

I looked over at Karen, speechless for once in my life.

"How the hell--?"

"I don't know."

We both turned back to the interrogation room, afraid to look away for a single moment.

"Dad!" Spencer was gasping now, his bounds hands clenching into fists and then releasing again. "They didn't break in. They wanted us to think they did. They had a key!"

"Maybe," Henry agreed. "Maybe."

Spencer's eyes suddenly grew wide as his face grew even whiter as a terrible reality smacked him in the head like a sack of bricks. "Oh, God, Dad!"

"What?"

"They didn't have a key…Gus let them in!"

Henry leaned forward. "How do you know?"

"He…he called me that afternoon. He told me to stay away. He never did that when he was trying to catch up on his route! He…he was lying. He just didn't want me to come around. Oh, God…he was trying to keep me out of something. He was trying to protect me."


	16. Chapter 16

I looked over at the Chief, raising a questioning eyebrow at her.

She just shook her head slowly, her eyes wide in amazement. "I don't know…" she murmured.

Spencer's knee was bouncing so fast now it was just a blur. He kept shaking his head frantically, as if he couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

"He was trying to protect me," he kept murmuring over and over again. "He was trying to keep me out of it…"

"What was he trying to keep you out of?" Henry asked, his voice quiet now as he leaned forward, resting his hand on the back of his son's head.

"I don't know…I don't know…"

Spencer suddenly stopped shaking his head, his wide, unblinking eyes meeting his father's.

I knew he had something, I just didn't have a damn idea what it was.

My head was spinning just watching him.

"Hennigan's a damn liar!" he exploded again.

"Shawn!" Henry growled, dropping his hand from the back of his head. "He was out of the country."

"No!" Spencer protested, talking so fast now that I could barely keep up. "You don't understand! I know what he was lying about! I figured it out!"

"What?" Henry sat back, listening intently.

"I knew he was a damn liar!"

"Shawn!" Henry snapped again, rapidly losing patience. "What was he lying about?"

There wasn't the heat behind his words there had been before; just a subdued urgency, the cop's perpetual need to understand.

Karen was leaning against the glass now, her eyes locked attentively on Spencer as his knee continued to bounce frantically.

I leaned forward, too, for once paying attention to every word that came out of Spencer's mouth.

I didn't know how, but he was about to crack this case wide-open.

"He said Gus dropped him as a client for being too small…" he was saying now, his voice going up an octave or two. "But Gus never did that! Small practices were easy! He loved them! He kept a few big ones around to pay the bills, but the small ones gave him more time at Psych. He'd never drop Hennigan for being too small! There's something else going on! That's what he was protecting me from!"

I didn't have to hear another word, though Spencer was still talking.

I had enough.

I spun on my heel, marching towards the interrogation room down the hall where O'Hara was still working on Hennigan.

"Where are you going?" the Chief called after me, though I know she already knew.

She was just hoping she was wrong.

"Hennigan," I snapped over my shoulder, not even slowing down.

"Detective…"

There was a tone in that word…a tone she only used with me when she was telling me to back down or informing me I needed to undergo a psych eval.

I turned back around slowly, knowing I didn't have a choice. Whatever she was about to say was an order, and I had damn well better pay attention.

"What?"

Her arms were crossed over her chest, a look of concern etched across her brow as she searched my face, trying to figure out what I was thinking.

Usually, she knows. But this time, I made sure she didn't. As I turned, my face was already set into the impassive, impenetrable expression even Karen couldn't see behind.

For the last six months of my marriage, it was the only expression I had worn at the station, and even she hadn't suspected a thing.

She looked back at Spencer, then shook her head and sighed. "He already has a potential lawsuit against the department," she said finally, sighing as she realized I wasn't going to tip my hand. "Just…don't add to it."

I nodded, but didn't make any promises.

I didn't give a damn about getting sued and I wasn't scared of the DA, and she knew it.

"I mean it, Detective," she added as I walked away. "If my psychic is going to jail, I'm sure as hell not losing my head detective, too."

If she had told me to back down, I would have.

I wouldn't have had a choice.

But she didn't.

She just watched silently as I opened the interrogation room door and stepped inside.

O'Hara was standing by the glass. She looked over at me as I shut the door, shaking her head slightly, indicating she wasn't getting anywhere.

Hennigan was at the table, his arms crossed over his chest. His swollen nose was still a bit bloody, but it wasn't as bad as it had been at first.

"He asked for a lawyer. He's not talking until he gets here," O'Hara said.

I nodded. "Go get some coffee," I told her. "I'll wait with him."

She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped when she saw the look on my face. "Okay," she agreed hesitantly, starting for the door.

I turned to him the moment the door shut behind her.

If she was smart, she had really gone to get coffee and wasn't standing behind the glass watching me.

I hoped she had.

I didn't want to her to have to testify.

I sat down across from Hennigan, meeting his gaze steadily. "Innocent people don't need lawyers, Hennigan," I told him.

He opened his mouth, but shut it again before saying anything.

He really didn't intend to speak until his lawyer got there.

That was fine with me.

I had too much to say to bother listening to the son of a bitch.

I leaned across the table, lowering my voice to the dull, threatening growl I knew couldn't be heard over the speakers even if they were turned on. "Innocent people don't need lawyers. Your alibi might check out, but we both know that doesn't mean you weren't involved. You had something to do with the murder of someone on the police payroll, Hennigan. And I sure as hell am not going to let that slide."

His eyes flashed, but his jaw clamped even tighter.

I pressed on, knowing I was starting to hit a nerve. "I told you you were a damn liar. And now I even know what you were lying about. Guster didn't drop you because your practice was too small. He liked small practices. He dropped you for some other reason…" I paused, picking up the notebook, which had been left in the middle of the table.

O'Hara had tried to get him to explain the letters and numbers, but he wouldn't say anything.

"And my guess is, it had something to do with this notebook," I continued, tossing it at him. It landed on the table in front of him, open to a page with columns of letters and numbers, accented by Guster's notes. "That's why it was taped under his desk. He had something on you. Didn't he? That's why he dropped you. And that's why you needed this back."

He didn't answer.

I leaned across the table again, my voice even lower. "I'm going to find out what happened," I told him. "You can sit here all day waiting for your lawyer and not say a word. I don't give a damn. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, and when I do, that swollen nose Spencer gave you is going to be the least of your problems."


	17. Chapter 17

I sat at my desk, staring intently at the notebook in front of me, more determined than ever to make sense of the cipher. It was the first chance I'd had to really analyze it, and I wasn't getting too far.

Every time I got my eyes to focus on the incomprehensible columns of letters and numbers, I found myself wondering where the hell Spencer was going to get a lawyer willing to represent him in an assault case.

Or wondering what the hell I was going to say on the stand…I knew I'd be called to testify, and I sure as hell wasn't going to lie to save Spencer's ass…

Then my eyes would focus on the notebook again.

I knew it had something to do with Guster's murder…I just didn't know what.

Why the hell couldn't I figure it out?

It happens in investigations sometimes, knowing something without knowing exactly what you know or how you know it…without having any proof…

It's like being punched in the gut.

Especially this time.

O'Hara slid into her desk, and once again my focus was drawn away from that damn notebook.

"Hennigan's lawyer just took him," she told me, sighing. She didn't bother asking me what I had said to him in the interrogation room, which either meant she was smart and didn't want to know or that she had been watching and knew already.

"He wouldn't let him say a word," she continued. "We still don't know anything about that notebook."

I nodded, pushing it aside.

"Spencer's gone, too," I told her. "His dad bailed him out. He told Karen he'd keep him away from the investigation."

I expected her to shoot me the same accusing glare the Chief kept shooting me. I expected her to say it was my fault Spencer was an idiot and I shouldn't have let him on the case in the first place, but she didn't. She just sighed again, her eyes growing distant as she stared past me.

"I don't think he needs to stay away from the case, Carlton," she told me. "I don't think going home is going to help him any. I think you were right. I think he needs to be involved."

I scowled.

Why the hell couldn't she ever agree with me the first time? It's not like I'm wrong all that often.

"Then he shouldn't have decked Hennigan," I snapped. "I didn't tell him to--"

"I know."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," I told her, tossing the book on her desk. I just wanted it as far away from me as possible. "We're not getting anywhere on the case. I know Guster had something on Hennigan, but I can't figure out what the hell it is from his notes."

O'Hara opened it again, flipping through the pages, her eyes running over them so quickly she couldn't possibly have been reading.

"Look at his notes," she said a few minutes later, her brows raised curiously as she handed it back. "Gus' notes. He says right here 'patient stopped treatment a year ago'…and over here he wrote 'deceased'…and here he says 'wrong name'… Whatever he had on Hennigan, it sounds like it involved his practice."

I nodded, rolling my eyes. "I got that far, O'Hara."

"But it sounds like it involved his patients…" she pressed on, ignoring me. "A lot of them. I mean, he wrote deceased five times on this page! It sounds like…it has something to do with dead patients. Could the letters be initials of patients he's killed?"

I sat up, blinking.

"You think the son of a bitch is killing patients?"

"I don't know…" she shook her head slowly. "I mean…all we have to go on is what Gus wrote. He didn't say anything about murder, but it definitely sounds like it has something to do with dead patients."

I stared down at the letters and numbers again. They jumped out off the page at me, looking the same as they'd been ten minutes ago.

Only this time, they were more clear and focused.

GB- 009077003

KL- 721221114

LM- 111100657

"I don't know," O'Hara shrugged thoughtfully, leaning back in her chair. "But if Gus thought Hennigan had something to do with patients dying, he might have said something to his secretary about it. She might know…"

I stood up, already on my way out the door. "Let's find out."

I turned back around, but O'Hara hadn't moved. She was sitting still, staring down at her desk. "We have to call Shawn," she said quietly, looking up at me.

"What?" I demanded, not believing I'd actually heard her right. "He punched out a suspect! He's lucky he's not sitting in a damn cell!"

"I know," she nodded firmly. "But we're getting somewhere on this, Carlton. And you were right. He needs to be there. He needs to figure this out."

I crossed my arms bitterly. "I tried! If he touches this case, the Chief will fire both our asses. Why the hell should I put my job on the line for him?"

She smiled palely, standing up. "Because he needs this. Just like you needed to figure out there was digitalis in the coffee."

I stared at her, at a complete loss. "What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded.

She just shrugged, brushing me off with a wave of her hand. "Never mind. He just…needs this. And he'd do the same thing for you."


	18. Chapter 18

I listened to her, though I don't have a damn idea why.

My ex-wife used to do the same thing. She would say something asinine, and I knew it was asinine and I would even tell her it was asinine…but then I would listen to her, anyway. Replace my judgment with hers.

Most of the time, I regretted it later.

This time, I regretted it the moment I dialed the phone.

"Spencer," I grunted when he picked up. "We have another lead. Meet us at Guster's office."

There was silence on the other end for a long moment.

"The Chief—" he started to mumble lamely, but I wasn't going to listen to his excuses.

I wasn't about to be reminded how stupid I was being.

"Spencer!" I snapped, cutting him off. "Are you in or not?"

He sighed, and I could almost hear his mind turning over the options. "I haven't had to sneak out of the house without my dad knowing since I was fifteen…" he said finally.

"If you can't handle it--"

"Oh, I can handle it."

"Then get your ass over to the office building before I change my mind."

I left it as an order intentionally, as if I still had some sort of control over this situation.

I knew better, of course.

After over fifteen years on the force, I know control is an illusion.

But it's the one illusion in my life that I refuse to let shatter.

I hung up and turned to O'Hara. "He's coming."

She nodded. "Thank you, Carlton."

I shrugged, pushing past her and out the precinct door, on my way to the car. "He'd better not screw this up, O'Hara."

"He won't," she assured me, jogging to catch up. "He won't."

Spencer was already in the parking lot when we arrived, sitting on his motorcycle waiting for us.

"What took you so long?" he demanded, the hint of his normal, cheeky sarcasm overshadowed by the impatient, almost hostile, edge in his voice. "And what's the lead? What are we looking for?"

He was already walking towards the building as he spoke, his body taut with strained energy. He wasn't even listening. He wasn't even thinking. He was just…moving, eager to get onto the next clue, the next lead.

I'd seen that look on eight detective's faces when I told them their partners weren't going to pull through. It was the look of a man who couldn't go back, couldn't look back. All he could do was press forward.

O'Hara had the notebook. She opened to a page, pointing at it. Spencer stopped his progress towards the building long enough to glance down at it. "Gus wrote notes about patients, and he marked some of these initials as deceased. We think maybe Hennigan is killing patients and Gus was onto him. We're looking into it. If you get any psychic leads while we're in there…"

Spencer nodded, his eyes studying the paper.

They were suddenly focused, determined.

He wanted to nail the son of a bitch as much as I did.

Probably more.

The secretary was still behind her desk as we walked in. She looked up at us, blinking in confusion. "You're back? Was there something else you needed from Mr. Guster's office? I thought you already took everything you needed."

I grabbed the notebook from O'Hara and dropped it on the desk, leaning across. "Have you ever seen this before?" I demanded.

She looked down at it and flipped through a few of the pages, her brow wrinkled as her confusion only deepened. "No," she shook her head, looking back up from me to O'Hara and then to Spencer. "Was it in Mr. Guster's office?"

"Yes," O'Hara confirmed, stepping up next to me. Spencer hung back, his hands jammed in his pockets again as his eyes scanned the room, not looking at the secretary. "We think the notes have something to do with Dr. Hennigan. Did Gus ever talk about him?"

"No," she shook her head thoughtfully. "He didn't talk about his clients at all, really. But, if I recall, Mr. Guster was only his representative for a few months. He took the practice over for Denny Wilson, then dropped him about a month ago when he took on a larger practice."

I raised an eyebrow at O'Hara. "Find him. If he had Hennigan as a client, he might know something."

The secretary stood up, nodding as she began to flip through her rolodex. "He's on his route right now, I think, but I can get you his cell phone number if you want. I'm sure if he knows anything, he'll be glad to help you."

She quickly jotted a number down and handed it to me. "I don't think Dr. Hennigan had anything to do with it," she said quietly. "He's always so polite when he comes in. I hope you're wrong about this."

I didn't answer. I just took the card and spun on my heel, marching out the door.

As I passed Spencer, I noticed he wasn't moving again.

He was standing still in the middle of the room, his fingers twitching into a loose fist, then releasing again.

I stopped, glaring at him. "I swear to God, Spencer. If you're thinking about punching out this Wilson guy, too, I'm just going to arrest your ass right now."

He blinked at me, then laughed. "I'm not."

"You'd _better_ not," I warned.

"I'm not!" he insisted. "I'm just trying to figure out what Gus wouldn't tell me. He told me everything…why wouldn't he tell me if he thought one of his clients was killing patients? It has to be something else…"

"But what?" O'Hara asked, turning around from the secretary's desk, her eyes meeting Spencer's. "Are you getting something, Shawn?"

He shook his head slowly, his eyes closed now. "Gus was the straightest arrow in the world. He turned himself in for cheating on a spelling test in second grade when he accidentally saw someone else's paper. We all had to take the test again. He almost got the crap kicked out of him for that one."

"What's your point, Spencer?" I demanded, cutting in.

He opened his eyes again. "If Gus thought someone was guilty of murder, why wouldn't he tell you guys? Why wouldn't he tell me?"

"Maybe he was trying to protect you," O'Hara suggested. "Maybe he didn't want to get you involved."  
Spencer nodded. "I know, Jules…" he murmured. "But who the hell was protecting him?"


	19. Chapter 19

It took an hour and ten damn phone calls, but we finally tracked down Wilson.

Once we did, I told him he had to come downtown to answer some questions about Guster's murder.

Strictly speaking, of course, he didn't actually have to come downtown to do this. He wasn't a suspect. He wasn't even a witness at this point. I could have just had him come back to his office, since that's where we were, anyway, but after wasting an hour of my life, I sure as hell wasn't inclined to make things easy for him.

Twenty minutes later, he was in the interrogation room, smiling up at me with his oily, serpentine used car salesman smile.

"I don't know what else I can do to help you, Detective," he told me, flashing his white teeth at me. "I already spoke with a detective the day after it happened. They were poking around the office, and I told them the same thing I'm telling you now. I knew Gus. We met a few times during college and he seemed like a decent enough guy. I put in a good word for him when I found out he was interviewing at Central Coast, but that was years ago and I haven't really had much contact with him since. We have different routes, different clients…I haven't even talked to him in months."

I nodded, glancing back at the glass, behind which I knew Spencer and O'Hara were watching everything.

I almost wished I hadn't told Spencer not to deck this guy. I hated his guts already. He was too slick, too fast on his feet.

He was a born salesman, always working some angle.

I sure as hell wasn't about to be worked.

"I read your statement," I nodded, taking a seat at the table, our eyes locking. "But there have been a few developments in the case."

"Developments?" he asked, leaning forward, still smiling. "What kind of developments? Last I knew, it was just a robbery."

"It's beginning to look like more," I told him.

For the first time in the entire conversation, his smile faded. He leaned back again, blinking as he removed his brown octagon glasses and ran a finger over his eye. "More?"

"Yeah," I nodded again, still waiting for his slick salesman routine to come back on. "Did Guster ever talk to you about one of your former clients? A Dr. Hennigan?"

"Hennigan?" Wilson's brow furrowed deep in thought. "I don't think so. I knew Gus had picked him up after I dropped him, but we never talked about him at all. He just took over the file. Why?"

I didn't answer his question.

Nothing sinks a case faster than a cop with a big mouth.

"Why did you drop him?" I pressed on, firing the next question before he had a chance to process the first one fully.

"Just business," he shrugged. "His practice is ninety-nine percent geriatrics who've been collecting Social Security since 1975. I got sick of hocking arthritis cream and denture adhesive. I had a chance to pick up a new practice with a lot of young families as patients. Kids get sick all the time, which means more chances for me to push the new medications we come out with. I grabbed it, and Gus picked up my slack. That's all."

He blinked slowly, putting his glasses back on. "Why are you asking me about Hennigan?" he asked. "And why did you say it's starting to look like more than a robbery? Do you think…Hennigan had something to do with it?"

"Why?" I shot back. "Should I?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, not missing a beat. "You're the cop."

"But did you ever see anything at Hennigan's practice when you were his rep that made you think he might be involved in a murder?" I pushed on. "You jumped to that conclusion pretty quickly."

"Did I?" he shrugged, flashing me his salesman smile again. "I don't know. You said you wanted me to answer questions about Gus, then you started in on Hennigan. What am I supposed to think?"

"You tell me."

"What is this? Who's on First?" he demanded, his smile disappearing again. "Why don't you just ask me what you want to know, and I'll help you out if I can."

Our eyes locked again. His smile was back now, but it was just a little too forced this time.

He was still working the angles.

"I want to know about Hennigan's practice," I told him directly, deciding it was time to reveal a card or two I was holding.

"Okay," he nodded. "Now we're getting somewhere. But, I haven't talked to Hennigan since I dropped him, so I don't know how much help I can be. What do you want to know?"

"Did you ever noticed anything suspicious about him or his patients?"

"What kind of suspicious?" Wilson asked, relaxing slightly in his seat.

"Did any of his patients ever…die?"

"Die?" he laughed, running his fingers through his hair. "How the hell would I know that? I was just his pharmaceutical rep. It's not like he consulted me for treatment advice. But, like I said, his practice is mostly elderly people, so it wouldn't surprise me if one or two them dropped off. It happens."

"But you don't know of any off-hand?"

"No," he shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. I never heard about any of his patients dying." He raised an eyebrow at me. "And what does any of this have to do with Gus' murder, anyway?"

I stood up. "We have reason to think that there might be a connection."

"To Hennigan?" Wilson laughed, shaking his head as he stood up and started for the door. "I just can't see it. He's an awfully nice old guy."

I grunted, opening the door to the room as he walked out. "It's always the nice ones."

As we stepped out of the room, he turned left and started up the hallway towards the precinct exit. I followed him, but not before glancing back at O'Hara and Spencer, who were still standing by the glass, staring blankly at the empty interrogation room as if there were still people inside.

Neither of them seemed to notice I was standing right there, or that the witness was long gone now.

I paused for a moment before following Wilson out, watching them curiously.

What the hell were they looking at?

Before I could ask what was they were doing, O'Hara's hand came up and rested gently on Spencer's shoulder. At first, I thought it was just a fleeting gesture…that she was brushing something off him or maybe pushing him away…but after a full thirty seconds, it was still there, draped over his shoulder.

After a minute, his head dropped to the side, his forehead resting against hers.

Neither of them moved or said anything. They just kept standing there, staring blankly at the vacant room before them as if they were the only two people left on the planet.

I spun on my heel and marched up the hall after Wilson without saying anything, still watching them out of the corner of my eye.

"I'm sorry, Shawn," I could hear her whispering as I turned the corner and couldn't see them anymore. "I'm sorry."


	20. Chapter 20

I hate hitting walls.

I hate leads that go no where.

I hate unanswered questions, puzzles that are missing pieces.

I hated everything about this case.

I still knew Hennigan was involved, but I was starting to doubt I would ever be able to prove it.

I started to wonder if I was even right...if for once my gut had let me down, led me on a wild goose chase...

What if Hennigan had nothing to do with it at all?

The worst thing an investigator can do is start to doubt what they know to be true.

By the time I walked Wilson out and got back to my desk, O'Hara and Spencer were there. She was sitting in her chair, looking over the notebook again. Spencer was standing over her, his eyes scanning the text.

I slid into my chair, but they didn't seem to notice.

"We have to find a connection," she was saying to him. "It's there, Shawn. It has to be. Hennigan has something to do with this, even if Wilson can't help us find it."

He nodded slowly, his eyes still focused on the page.

She sighed, picking up a thick file that was sitting on the desk in front of her and opening it up. "I'm going to go over the LUDs again," she murmured, though I couldn't tell if she was talking to me, Spencer, or just herself. "I have to do something."

I opened my mouth to tell her not to bother.

We'd both been over all of Guster's phone records a hundred times. His office, his cell phone, the Psych office...it was was no connection there.

Hennigan hadn't called him, and he hadn't called Hennigan.

But I didn't say anything.

I knew how she felt.

She had to do something.

Spencer didn't even seem to hear her, however. His eyes had narrowed now, and his brow was wrinkling in concentration.

I leaned forward over my desk, looking down at the notebook, trying to see what he was seeing.

"Geriatrics who've been collecting Social Security since 1975..." he murmured, almost inaudibly. "Social Security..."

His mind was clicking now...I could see it...but I still had no idea what the hell he had latched onto.

"What?" I asked, vaguely remembering Wilson saying something like that in the interrogation room. "What are you talking about, Spencer?"

He picked up the notebook. "These numbers..." he murmured. "If the letters are initials, the numbers might be Social Security numbers. They all have the right number of digits...Maybe we've been going about this the wrong way. As a doctor, he'd have access to his patient's Social Security numbers, birth dates, spouses, possibly credit card information or even copies of their birth certificates...maybe he wasn't killing patients at all. Maybe he was stealing their identities."

I blinked.

Could he be right...?

"But what the hell would the deceased notes mean?" I asked finally, pointing at the page. "And what would a patient stopping treatment a year ago have to do with--?"

"I don't know," Spencer shook his head slowly, cutting my question off. "I don't know...but I'm telling you, those are Social Security numbers."

I could feel my eyes widening as I stood up, grabbing the notebook away from him.

How the hell did he always do that?

"I'll run them through the FBI's database," I said over my shoulder, already on my way to track down this lead.

New leads are like those damn potato chips. You always think the next one is going to be the one that finally satisfies you, that finally fills you up.

But it's never the next one.

It's always the one after that...or the one after that...

You always need just one more.

It took me two hours to run the number in Guster's notebook through the FBI.

Two hours to find out it was another lead that left nothing but a hollow pit in my stomach.

"Half those numbers aren't Social Security numbers," I spat at Spencer as I came back to my desk, where he was still sitting with O'Hara, sifting through the LUDs from Guster's office and home. I threw the notebook onto the desk, glaring at both of them. "And the half that were have been invalid for years!"

"Invalid?" Spencer repeated, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Yeah!" I snapped. "The people they belong to died years ago! When people die, their Social Security numbers are invalidated! You can't steal their identities!"

Spencer sat back in his chair, closing his eyes thoughtfully. "We knew they belonged to dead people..." he murmured to himself, apparently forgetting I was standing over him, glaring. "At least, some of them. Gus' notes said deceased...but some of them also said 'wrong name'...'no match'...'number doesn't exist'...he was looking up the Social Security numbers Hennigan wrote down in the notebook, Lassie. He had to be. His notes are the status of the numbers...some didn't exist, some were attached to another name, some belonged to dead people...but why would he be looking up Social Security numbers in Hennigan's notebook? And why would Hennigan be writing them down if he wasn't stealing patient's identities?"

O'Hara suddenly looked up from the page of Guster's phone records she was looking through. "I don't think it matters, Shawn," she said quietly. "I don't think it was Hennigan."

"What?" I asked, shoving Spencer out of my chair as I sat down. "What are you talking about, O'Hara?"

She didn't answer right away. She reached across the desk, grabbing the card that Guster's secretary had written down Wilson's cell phone number.

She looked at the number, then the phone records, then passed both back to me. "Look, Carlton..." she said, pointing at an entry on the phone records. "It just shows up at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, because the phone is registered to the company...that's why it never stood out before...but that's Denny Wilson's cell phone number, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I nodded slowly, comparing the two quickly. "It is."

"Didn't he say he hadn't talked to Gus in months?" she pressed on, leaning back in her chair. "Because this call was just last week."

But I was already a step ahead. I stood up, halfway out the door before I even got my next sentence out.

"Damn son of a bitch was lying!"

* * *

I kept Wilson in the interrogation room all damn night.

He never asked for a lawyer.

He never answered a question.

He never admitted to knowing a single thing about the murder or the notebook.

He never even admitted he had been lying about talking to Guster.

He just sat there, smiling up at me with that damn salesman smile, making polite conversation about the weather and the Mets.

I was on the verge of decking him myself when the door opened behind me. I turned around, expecting to see O'Hara bringing me my third cup of coffee...but it was Spencer.

He shut the door quietly behind him, his face grave as his eyes locked with Wilson's.

I never let Spencer in on interrogations.

Ever.

Under normal circumstances, I would have kicked his ass back out into the hallway so fast he wouldn't even have had time to expel carbon dioxide into the room.

But these weren't normal circumstances.

It had been nine hours, and I wasn't getting anywhere.

Spencer's eyes shifted from the scumbag salesman back to me, asking me to give him one chance.

Asking me to let him try to nail the son of a bitch to the wall.

I nodded slowly, stepping back as Spencer walked into the room.

"Who's this?" Wilson asked, his cocky grin fading as Spencer took a seat across from him.

"Spencer," I grunted, crossing my arms over my chest. "He's a psychic the department hires to consult on cases involving lying bastards."

Spencer nodded, putting a single finger against Wilson's temple. "And I'm getting the distinct scent of burning pants coming from the other side of this table."

Wilson brushed his hand away, clearly not amused by the quip. "I'm not lying," he insisted coolly. "I wasn't lying about talking to Gus. I don't know why my number shows up on his phone records. I just know I didn't call him. I've never seen this notebook before, either, and I don't know anything about Hennigan or Social Security numbers, and I sure as hell don't know anything about Gus' murder. He was my friend! Why would I kill him?"

Spencer pulled his hand back, his eyes narrowing at the salesman. "That's not the question," he said quietly, his voice quivering ever so slightly. "The question is why wouldn't Gus tell me if he was on the trail of something illegal going on? The answer: it involved someone he considered a friend. Gus was loyal, Denny. He gave everybody the benefit of the doubt. If you put in a good word for him when he interviewed, he wouldn't have turned you in right away when he found out what you and Hennigan were doing with his dead patient's Social Security numbers...He would have approached you about it first, given you a chance to tell him your side of it. He would have met you at the Psych office to talk about it. That's what he did, isn't it?"

He stood up, looming over Wilson now, who was still seated but no longer grinning.

"He knew you and Hennigan were using Social Security numbers for something illegal. Some you were stealing from dead patients...some you were inventing and linking to people who didn't exist...Hennigan was using them for something, Denny. It wasn't identity theft...so it was probably to write fake prescriptions. That's what Gus meant when he wrote that a patient had stopped treatment a year ago...he meant they were still getting drugs even though their treatment had stopped. Hennigan would write prescriptions for fake patients or dead patients, then sell them on the street for double their value. You must have been in on it, too. He couldn't pick them up himself, so you would. Why not? Like you said, his practice was small and full of old people who probably couldn't afford to pay him in the first place. You both figured it was an easy way to make some extra money."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but Spencer wasn't about to hear it.

His fists were clenched as he stepped even closer. His voice dropped, becoming low and deadly. "That's really why you dropped Hennigan, isn't it? You were too close. If anyone connected you two, you were both going down. You had to distance yourself from the scam for it to work...so you pawned it off on Gus. But Gus was smart. He figured out what was going on, and instead of going to the police, he went to you. He gave you a chance to come clean, to make it right...and you killed him."

"Shut up!" Wilson snapped, for the first time losing his cool demeanor as he stood up, knocking his chair.

"You killed him, you son of a bitch!" Spencer shouted, not about to back down.

I was sure he was going to sock him, but I didn't make a move to stop him.

Not this time.

Wilson spun on his heel, starting for the door. "I'm not under arrest," he growled at me. "And I don't have to listen to this--"

"But you didn't kill him because of the drugs," Spencer cut-in suddenly, his tone growing softer as he raised his fingers to his temple and closed his eyes. "No...I'm getting another reason...you were jealous."

Wilson stopped dead, spinning around again.

His cool salesman demeanor was completely gone now.

"What did you say?" he growled, his fists clenching.

Spencer opened his eyes again, inhaling deeply, his fists starting to tremble. "You heard me. Gus was a better rep than you. He pulled in more sales, the customers liked him more...and you couldn't take it. That's why you shot him. Because he was better than you."

"That's a damn lie!" Wilson shouted, lunging at him.

Spencer didn't make a move to stop him. He didn't throw a single punch. He just stood there, letting Wilson slug him in the nose. His head snapped back in a spray of blood. I tackled Wilson a moment later, wrestling him the ground.

As I snapped the cuffs on him and dragged him to his feet, his suit jacket sleeve rode up just enough for me to see his forearms.

They were covered in deep, red scars.

Spencer was on his feet again, his nose still gushing as he grinned at me.

"Is that enough for a warrant for his apartment?" he asked. "Between the phone calls and punching me out, it has to be enough, right?"

"Yeah," I nodded, examining the scars. "It's enough."

"Good," Spencer nodded. "Then you should find Gus' sample case there. He must have taken it from the scene because Gus was keeping the evidence in it."

O'Hara was in the room now.

"Shawn!" she exclaimed, running past both Wilson and me. "Are you okay?"

Spencer just shrugged, rubbing his nose. "At least I can tell you where it hurts now," he mumbled. "It's a pain I understand."

She touched it gingerly, wincing. "God, Shawn...it's broken."

He laughed, shaking his head sadly. "Probably...but, It has a nice symmetry to it, don't you think, Jules?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

He pointed at Wilson's scarred forearms. "The first case I ever solved for the SBPD had someone with scars on their arms...and now, so does my last case."


	21. Chapter 21

I didn't believe him.

He couldn't be serious.

Since when was Spencer serious about anything?

Even after he just walked away, leaving the precinct before we had even executed our search warrant of Wilson's apartment and found Guster's sample case, I still didn't think he meant it.

I didn't think he could actually stay away for long.

Spencer could never stay away from the station for long. His compulsion to hover around like a fly, irritating the hell out of me, was too strong.

But he never came back.

He testified at the trial, of course. He sat on the stand and told the world everything he knew about Guster's murder. He was even in the courtroom when Wilson was sentenced...I saw him standing at the back, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, nodding silently along with the judge's words...but he never came back to the station.

He never called me once to check on the case.

I know he called O'Hara. I caught her talking to him on her cell phone at least once a week during her lunch...but I never asked what they were talking about.

I never asked if he had really walked away from Psych.

I couldn't.

Asking would make it seem like I actually gave a damn.

One day, however, I finally had no choice. I had to track him down. There were a few copies of some reports he had never signed, and I knew Wilson's lawyer could pull some song and dance and get his client off on a technicality if I didn't rectify that soon.

So, I went to Psych.

Spencer was there, like I knew he would be. He was sitting in the center of the floor, half-empty boxes spread around him.

He looked up as I walked in, looking somewhat surprised to see me.

"Lassie!" he mumbled, stumbling to his feet. "What are you--?"

"You didn't sign the reports," I grunted, shoving a Manila file folder in his face before he had a chance to finish his question. "Unless you want Wilson walking--"

"Oh," he shrugged, taking the files and walking back to the desk. "I'll sign them." He grabbed a pen and quickly scrawled his chicken-scratch signature across them all without even reading them.

I knew he didn't have to read them.

He glanced over his name one last time, then nodded slowly, handing the files back to me with a solemn grimace. "There you go, Lassie. Fry the bastard."

"I'm trying."

"I know."

I took the papers back, tucking them under my arm.

I knew I didn't have any other reason to be there.

There wasn't anything left to say...

So why the hell wasn't I moving towards the door?

"Spencer..." I began finally, still not sure where that sentence was going even as it worked its way out of my mouth.

"Huh?" he asked, glancing up from the desk at me. "Was there another form?"

"No."

"Then what--?"

"Damn it, you're still on the police payroll!" I burst out suddenly.

He blinked in surprise, apparently not expecting that. "What?"

"You're on the police payroll!" I repeated, wondering if it sounded as stupid to him as it did in my own ears. "So, where the hell have you been? If you think you're getting paid for not showing up, Spencer--"

"I don't think I'm getting paid," he cut me off quietly.

"Good," I nodded, spinning on my heel and starting for the door. "Because you're not."

"I know."

I was almost out.

I was almost free...

But then, from behind me, he said the four words I never thought I'd ever hear him say.

"I'm not psychic, Lassie."

I stopped dead in my tracks. For a moment, I didn't move.

I knew I had heard him wrong...

It was just a dream...

No way in hell would Spencer ever admit that.

Finally, I turned around to face him.

I had to.

"What?" I asked, though I didn't really want him to repeat it.

Of course, Spencer always has to do the exact opposite of what I want him to, anyway. He collapsed into the desk chair, looking up at me with even, unblinking eyes.

"I'm not psychic, Lassie," he said again, resting his hands behind his head. "I never have been."

I took a step towards him, on the verge of breaking his nose again.

What the hell was he trying to pull?

"What do you mean you're not psychic?" I demanded, feeling my fists starting to clench. "You're on the payroll as a psychic. That means as far as the Santa Barbara Police Department is concerned--"

"But I'm not," he insisted firmly, his voice rising. "Come on, Lassie. You've always known that."

I sighed, pulling a chair up to the desk and taking a seat.

For years, this is what I had wanted.

I had Spencer cold.

But this isn't how it was supposed to happen.

"Spencer--"

"I just can't do it anymore," he told me, not even listening to me. "I can't keep it up without Gus. I mean, he's the reason there's even a Psych at all. Without him, I would've gone bankrupt in a week. Hell, without his credit score, I wouldn't have even gotten the lease. There's...just no point anymore, Lassie."

He leaned back in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling as if it was a million miles away.

"I just started it to get him out of the office...he needed that sometimes. To remember there was a life besides work...to remember to have fun. That's why I thought..." he paused, sitting up again, blinking at me. "That's why I dragged him into it."

I nodded slowly.

What the hell was I supposed to say?

"You didn't get him killed, Spencer."

"I know."

I stood up, and for a moment our eyes locked across the desk.

"Quitting won't bring him back."

"That's not why--"

"You're not listening, Spencer," I cut him off, resting my hands on the desk as I loomed over him. "Quitting never brings them back. Partners...wives...friends...once they're gone, nothing brings them back. Once they're gone, the world just makes less sense. And the only thing that keeps you going, that lets you take that next step forward, is knowing that somehow you can make the world make sense again. If you can solve the puzzles...right the wrongs...then, somehow, it's all...just easier."

He stared up at me, for once devoid of smart-ass remarks.

"And that's why you won't quit," I told him, straightening up. "It's not because you don't want to. It's because you can't. Puzzles have answers, Spencer. And, like it or not, you're going to have to find them eventually."


	22. Chapter 22

He looked up at me from across his desk, but didn't say anything.

There wasn't anything for him to say.

We both knew I was right.

Eventually, he was going to have to start looking for answers again.

He didn't have a choice.

No investigator does.

After a full minute of complete silence, I turned on my heel and walked out of his office, not looking back once.

I wasn't surprised when he actually went through with it. He actually shut down Psych, actually closed the office and took himself off the police payroll.

He just...walked away.

That should have been the end of the story. It was certainly the end of the case. We had our answer, we got justice for Guster...the world made sense again.

What else was left?

But, as it turned out, it wasn't over quite yet.

God, I hate myself sometimes.

Why the hell couldn't I just leave it alone?

Why did I have to eat lunch at my desk that day?

Why did O'Hara have to take the stupid phone call at her desk just a few feet away?

Why the hell did I have to realize it was Spencer?

And for God's sake, why the hell did I have to say anything when I did?

The moment I realized she was talking to him...again...I glared at her. She noticed and glanced over at me curiously.

"What?" she asked. "It's my lunch break. I can make personal calls on my lunch break."

I reached out and snatched the phone away from her before she could even react.

Normally, that's not a maneuver I would try with O'Hara unless I was willing to sacrifice my hand...but this time, I didn't give a damn.

"Carlton!" she snapped, reaching for it again, but I had pushed my chair back out of her range.

"Spencer," I growled into the receiver, ignoring her glare.

"Lassie?" he laughed on the other end. "What did you do? Knock out Jules and steal her phone? If you wanted to talk to me that badly, you could've just called me later. Or you could have texted me. An lol says more than assaulting your partner ever could."

"Shut up, Spencer," I growled, throwing open a file that had been sitting on my desk for a week. "I have a double homicide."

"I'd see a doctor," he suggested. "I think they can remove those with a cream now."

I glared at the phone, like it was the same as glaring at him. "You know what I mean."

There was a long pause on the other end. I could hear him thinking, fighting against it.

I knew it was pointless.

He couldn't fight it.

No investigator can.

"I'm not on the payroll anymore, Lassie," he told me finally.

"Good," I snorted. "Because I'm not planning on paying you."

"Psych is closed," he continued to fight, his voice growing weaker as his arguments crumbled.

"I"m not talking to a damn psychic," I snapped. "I'm talking to you. It's a double homicide, Spencer. No leads. This is your last chance. Are you in or not?"

He sighed.

He didn't want in.

I knew he didn't.

But this wasn't about what he wanted. Not anymore.

Finally, he groaned. "I'm in."


End file.
